


Let Us Give Thanks

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-02
Updated: 2008-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:43:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This started with a menu and kind of grew from there.  Last year I wrote a piece specifically on hunger for this <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/14_valentines/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/14_valentines/"><b>14_valentines</b></a> topic, but this year I'm focusing on food and friendship and being thankful, with a little generosity to the hungry tangentially thrown in (even if it is on the part of the "bad guy" in the story).  You can read the hunger essay <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/14valentines/100905.html">here</a>, and also I encourage you to give to the <a href="http://www.wfp.org/english/">UN World Food Programme</a> if you are able.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Us Give Thanks

It was an odd situation, to be sure. Two English expatriate chefs, a medium-sized New England town, and fierce competition between them for the love of the local food critic and the consuming public.

Orlando Bloom had never liked Dominic Monaghan very much, especially when it came to his traditional English dishes and family-recipe based menu. It pissed him off that one of the town's two upscale restaurants got off on serving fucking roasts and mash for thirty dollars a plate, and that the Americans who patronized The Silver Spoon praised Monaghan's menu for its European "flair." Oh, it was European all right. So European that the fucking chef with his nostalgia for the English cuisine of his childhood grew up in bloody _Germany_, probably on sausages and sauerkraut, but no one seemed to care about that.

On the other hand, his own restaurant was also doing quite well. The owner liked to put pressure on Orlando to improve his menus, his staff's efficiency in the kitchen, even his demeanour in public, but Orlando was proud of what he had created. Le Fleur Bleu's popularity had been dwindling after only six years in business and the much-celebrated opening of the Silver Spoon when the owner brought Orlando in, fresh from his education at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, to revive the menu and put new energy into the venture. Now the two restaurants enjoyed roughly equal numbers of Friday and Saturday night diners, but Orlando wanted to do better. He wanted to educate the palettes of the locals, and with any luck, find a decent restaurant that would hire him on the merits in Boston or even New York.

"Morning!" Elijah called cheerily, ignoring Orlando's frown as he sat at one of the tables in the empty dining room, flipping through a folder of his own recipes.

"I hate this fucking holiday."

Elijah grinned and sat down opposite Orlando, setting down a hot cup of coffee next to the bulging folder.

"Cheer up, sweetheart. It's a time to give thanks for what you have."

"And by that I assume you mean _not_ a job if this doesn't work."

"Oh, stop being so melodramatic. It doesn't become you. Also, Dom's totally chill. You might not want to start freaking out quite yet."

"Great. Just what I need to hear. _Dom's_ not freaking out. Brilliant."

Elijah Wood, a transplant from the Midwest who'd gone to Wesleyan and was now a writer for the local paper, was Orlando's best friend in town. He was also Dominic Monaghan's on-again, off-again boyfriend, a conflict of interest that never seemed to faze the young man. At the moment, they were on, though the latest off period had lasted much longer than usual.

"Orli. Seriously. Take a nice, deep breath, and talk it out with me. It's Thanksgiving. So let's think about the traditional stuff. Turkey, right? Something fancy, I assume. How do the French do turkey?"

"They don't," Orlando grumbled. "That's the problem. If I could do duck, or goose, or even Cornish hen…"

"What about pâté or something? Could you make turkey pâté?"

"Pate comes from liver, Elijah. You can't buy turkey liver."

"So send one of your minions out to capture a wild one," Elijah suggested with a teasing little grin. Orlando rolled his eyes and reached across the table to smack his forehead.

"Maybe I'll send _you_."

\---

"Ready for dinner, boss?"

Orlando just glared at Craig as his trusty sou chef waltzed into the kitchen. "I haven't thought about it."

"Of course not. Because you're obsessed with Thanksgiving. But the mayor's wife is dining tonight with some charity people, and they're at the chef's table. You need to think about _that_ menu before you fast forward to Thursday."

"Fuck."

"Breathe, Orlando," Craig suggested, tying his apron and covering his hair with a starched white hat before he went to the hand washing sink. "She's been here twelve times. She loved the mushroom caviar, and there's always the veggies Provençale."

"All right, all right. God, I fucking hate vegetarians."

Craig giggled and shook his head. "Croustades. Put the caviar on croustades, and…"

"French onion soup!" Orlando exclaimed, grinning as he finally tore his mind away from Thanksgiving. "She really liked it last time, yeah?"

"Just don't forget to stay away from the beef stock."

"I know, I know. I'm not completely hopeless. What about the salad? Goat cheese?"

"And cranberries… walnuts…"

"Fresh fig! Don't we have some figs?"

"A few."

"All right… desserts, desserts… vanilla bean crème brulee."

"We have some currants, if you want."

"No… I think raspberries."

"All right, baby," Craig said with a broad grin, rubbing his hands together. "Let's rock and roll."

\---

"Bloom. Good to see you."

Orlando looked up, annoyed, at Dominic's pleasant smiling face in the grocery store line. "You, too," he said through gritted teeth, managing a smile of his own. "How are you?" he asked. "Looking forward to Thanksgiving?"

"Oh, definitely. Nice to have such a straightforward menu to work with, you know. All the old favourites, just get to sit back and let it flow."

"Ah," Orlando replied, shifting his basket to the other hip. In Dominic's, he noticed a few bowls of pot noodles and tried not to smirk. Fucking plebe. "So you're going with a traditional menu, then?"

"Definitely. It's an American holiday, we don't really have a license to get in and shake things up too much, you know? Wouldn't want it to backfire."

Orlando's smile went tighter, and it took effort not to punch the man in the face. "Right, well. We'll see," he said amicably, and Dominic laughed. Fucking cunt.

\---

"Is turkey really necessary? You know, I'm thinking…" Orlando began excitedly, in a tone that could only introduce a most Brilliant Disaster. "Let's reinvent Thanksgiving! I'll serve pecan encrusted wild trout, pan seared scallops, oysters on the half shell…"

"Seafood?" Elijah asked sceptically. The two of them were sitting in the kitchen of Orlando's small rented house, munching on store-bought cookies (though Orlando had drawn the line at Oreos and insisted on Pepperidge Farm). "I don't know, Orli… I think you need to appeal to the traditional a little bit here."

"Why should I trust you?" Orlando grumbled, running a hand through his hair and staring at the slowly bubbling tea. "You're sleeping with the enemy."

Elijah laughed and shook his head. "Cheer up, sunshine. Dom said you looked tense at the store yesterday."

"Elijah. Three days till Thanksgiving. Don't mention your boyfriend again, and I might not hurt you."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Uh-huh…"

\---

_Butternut Squash Bisque, Seasoned with Nutmeg_

_~*~_

_Candied Pecan Sweet Potatoes Flambé  
Pan-Fried Green Beans served with a Cinnamon Béchamel   
Fresh Corn Cakes with Cranberry Jam_

_~*~_

_Seasonal Salad with Almonds, Cranberries, and Pears_

_~*~_

_Wild Trout Encrusted with Candied Pecans  
Pan-Seared Scallops with a Beurre Blanc Sauce  
Mussels Tossed with Lemon   
Lobster Tails served with a Grapefruit Coulis_

_~*~_

_Pumpkin Flan with Clove Scented Shortbreads  
Apple Cider Infused Crème Caramel  
Warm Fig Compote with Earl Grey and Bourbon_

_~*~_

_Apple or Pumpkin Pie Cocktail _

\---

"Where the fuck is the fish truck?" Orlando squealed, tugging hard at his hair with his hands as he paced back and forth in the hallway between the walk-in and his office. "I need my fucking trout!"

"You know, if we have to, there is that grouper in the freezer…"

"Aurgh! I am not using frozen fucking grouper! The menu says trout, and there will be trout if you have to catch it with your bare fucking hands, Parker!"

"Maybe you should sit…"

"Just tell me what's happening in the kitchen."

"Um, well… Raoul's really not happy about this grapefruit coulis…"

"Tell Raoul he can shove the grapefruit up his arse, if that's what he needs to do to freshly squeeze it. Next?"

"Hey, boss!" a kid with blonde hair and an annoying-as-fuck smile shouted, running down the hall.

"What?" Orlando snapped.

"I just went to go scout out the competition, and check it out – Monaghan's letting some _homeless_ people in for a free meal! He said something about the spirit of Thanksg…"

"Oh holy _fuck_," Orlando growled. "That little _cunt_, how dare he use those fucking tactics, fucking… _argh_!"

"Well," the kid suggested, a little more tentatively. "Maybe we could do the same thing, you know, invite a few people in off the street and then have them judge the food. The homeless people could compare, you know, get them involved…"

"You're fired."

As Craig went off to console the blonde, lip quivering – and more importantly to get him away from a ranting Orlando – Orlando ducked into his office to call Elijah.

"Hey, Orli. What's up?"

"I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown."

"Whoa, sweetheart. Breathe."

Orlando couldn't quite smile at the endearment, and that was a bad sign.

"What's wrong?"

"Everything's wrong! The fucking fish truck isn't here!"

"Well it is Thanksgiving. Maybe they hit traffic coming in from the Cape…"

"I don't care if the driver's bloody wife is giving birth, I want my fish!"

"Orlando," Elijah warned, his tone firm. "I'm not your kitchen staff. Don't shout at me."

"Sorry," he grumbled.

"Now. Take a deep breath. You won't get a good review if you accidentally yell at the critic."

"Right. Well I'm sure your _boyfriend_ will get a good review with his fucking homeless people… fucking publicity stunt…"

"Don't be hostile. It's not a stunt, it's just an idea he had last-minute. I think it's brilliant."

"You would."

"Jesus," Elijah muttered. "Call me back when you have something nice to say."

Orlando stared at the receiver, frowned, and then hung it up, muttering to himself. Elijah had never actually hung up on him. Not even during that one heated argument about Oasis versus Third Eye Blind when Orlando had made a number of unsavoury remarks about Elijah's mother. He gave it another minute's thought, and then, realizing that he was sinking into a melancholy mood he really didn't have time to deal with right at the moment, left his office to go castrate the fish truck driver.

\---

"Orli," Elijah said gently as he opened the door to Orlando's office Friday morning. "I think we need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," Orlando grumbled, staring at the early edition of the day's paper spread open on his desk to the Life section. The photo of Dominic, grinning as he carved the turkey in front of an equally happy homeless man, Elijah's figure blurred in the background at Dominic's left shoulder, took up half a page. The scathing critique of Orlando's Thanksgiving meal was a small column in the lower right-hand corner. "Pretentious," "doesn't get it," and "the young chef's vision would perhaps be well received in Paris, but not in this New England town," were burned onto his brain.

"Orli. Come on. Don't sulk."

"Don't _sulk_? I'm waiting to hear if I can have a second chance at my _job_, Elijah! Haven't you heard? Your boyfriend is booking tables two months in advance, and people are cancelling their reservations here. I'm fucking screwed."

"He isn't my boyfriend," Elijah said quietly, and at the hurt in his tone Orlando looked up. "He doesn't have time for me right now," Elijah elaborated with a shrug. "Whatever. It wasn't a big deal, anyway."

Orlando narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side.

"He's a bastard."

"Orli, I really don't want to get in the middle of this competition…"

"No, I mean… that isn't what I meant."

Elijah raised an eyebrow. "What _did_ you mean?"

"He's a bastard for treating you like that."

"It's really not a big deal. He wasn't my _boyfriend_."

"Yeah, well. You should have something more than that."

Elijah shrugged. "I don't know. Hey, do you want to get a pizza for dinner?"

"A pizza?"

"Yeah, you know, that thing us plebeians eat? With tomato sauce and cheese?" Elijah grinned and Orlando balled up the sheet of newsprint and threw it at him.

"Wanker."

"Well?"

"Yeah, all right."

\---

"This is really…"

"Amazing?"

"Well I was going to say simple, but it's not bad…"

"Orli, it's _pizza_!" Elijah exclaimed, rolling his eyes. "Is nothing sacred?"

"I just haven't had delivery pizza in a long time."

"Obviously. When's the last time you ate something normal?"

"What do you mean normal?"

"You know what I mean."

"Um…" Orlando furrowed his brow, thinking as he munched on his slice. "I'm not sure. A while ago."

"Were you always like this?"

"Like what?"

"A gourmet."

Orlando smiled and nodded. "Yeah. I've always loved food."

"But didn't you ever eat… I don't know… Spaghetti-Os? E-Z Mac?"

"Elijah, I'm English."

"All right, well what do English kids eat?"

"Pot noodles. Fish and chips."

"Yeah, those. Did you eat those?"

"Well, sure."

"And did you like them?"

"Well… yeah," Orlando admitted. "Fish and chips, at least. There was this place down the corner, and they made it so good. The batter was clog-your-arteries greasy, and lemony, and it was always so hot that I'd burn my fingers when I folded the paper back, but I never learned my lesson. I always ate it right away anyway."

Elijah grinned. "See? You are human after all!"

Orlando frowned and beaned him with an unopened container of garlic butter.

\---

"Hey, boss. You all right?"

"Actually," Orlando replied, looking a little surprised as he addressed Craig. "Yeah."

"Really?" Craig raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I might not have a job come Monday, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. What are you doing here on a Saturday, anyway?"

"Oh, just came to make sure you didn't hang yourself from the chandelier in the dining room."

"Oh. Thanks."

"Anytime. What are _you_ doing here?"

Orlando shrugged. "The kitchen's my best place to think."

"What are you thinking about?"

"I don't know… just some things Elijah said last night."

"Ah," Craig replied with a knowing smile.

"What? What was that look?"

"Oh, nothing. I hear he and Dominic are finished."

"Yeah, well, until the next time," Orlando grumbled.

"No," Craig said, gently. "Finished. I hear he said some pretty crap things to Elijah, actually. Apparently your name was mentioned."

"What?" Orlando looked up, frowning. "The bastard."

"Yeah, well. I suppose Dominic wasn't too happy with your friendship. Or his perceived nature of it. The words 'sleeping with the enemy' were used."

"Wait, _what_? Elijah wouldn't sleep with me!"

Craig laughed. "And here I thought you had an ego problem."

"Shut up. He wouldn't."

"How do you know that?"

"Because he's _Elijah._ He's my best friend. And _he's_ the one sleeping with the enemy."

"Uh huh."

"He thinks my menus are pretentious," Orlando said with a frown.

"Well…"

"Craig! You were trained at Cordon Bleu, too!"

"Doesn't mean I can't still appreciate cookies and milk, though."

Orlando frowned. "I suppose…"

"Think about it, mate." Craig grinned and clapped him on the back. "I'll see you around."

\---

"Orli? Where the hell are you?"

"In the dining room, mate!" Orlando called. His palms were sweating, his heart was racing, and the past seven years of his culinary career were on the line. No dish had ever been more important, and this was the moment of truth. The first time he'd watched one of the top dogs at Le Cordon Bleu taste his crème brulee paled in comparison.

"Jesus, Orli, what the fuck? It's totally dark in…"

Elijah trailed off, and Orlando watched from the shadows as he found the single table, lit from above, dressed with the most formal tablecloth and place setting, a single red rose in a crystal vase in the centre. The china plate was piled high with cookies, and next to it sat a long stemmed glass of milk.

Elijah burst out laughing and clapped his hands together, rushing forward to sample a cookie. Orlando couldn't look. He didn't. He didn't take his hand away from his eyes until Elijah spoke again.

"Damn. These are fucking great."

Orlando grinned. "Thanks," he replied, stepping out from his hiding place. "I made them myself."

Elijah laughed and took another bite, then a sip of milk. "I can't believe you managed to make a plate of chocolate chip cookies. _Normal_ chocolate chip cookies, no cayenne pepper or coconut or cookies crumbled into crème brulee… really, Orli, this is impressive."

Orlando smiled and blushed a little, staring at his hands. "Well… I did add a dash of cardamom."

Elijah giggled and finished his cookie, and then slung his arms around Orlando's neck, smacking a kiss on his cheek. "I'm sorry I underestimated you."

"No," Orlando agreed, grabbing Elijah's waist to keep him from letting go. "You were completely right. I'd lost track of what's important."

"Oh."

"_I'm _the kind of bloke who would leave a man for his restaurant," Orlando admitted, not quite meeting Elijah's eyes. "But I hate that, and… maybe I haven't been with the right man yet. You know, to keep me from getting too involved in my work. I mean," he muttered, talking half to himself, "Maybe I could do better. I want to."

"Orli," Elijah interrupted him gently. "What are you saying?"

"I want you," Orlando said firmly, looking up into Elijah's eyes and swallowing. "I've been jealous of Dominic for so long, but not just because his restaurant's doing better than mine. And I think… well when I realised he didn't have _you_ anymore, I also realised it didn't matter. The hostility, the competition… it wasn't about that, Elijah."

"But I thought… I mean you're my best friend, I didn't know…"

Orlando frowned and let go of him, taking a step back. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed…"

"Wait. Let me talk."

"A – all right."

"I need some time to wrap my head around this."

Orlando nodded. "That's… understandable."

"Can we start with dinner? Tomorrow night?"

"Pizza?" Orlando asked, crediting himself for not cringing.

Elijah laughed and shook his head. "No, you dolt. A nice dinner."

"But tomorrow's Monday. Nice restaurants aren't open on Monday."

Elijah waved his hand dismissively. "I'll give Craig a hundred bucks to cook us dinner at my apartment. How about that?"

Orlando rolled his eyes. "Elijah, _I_ could cook you dinner here."

"No," Elijah disagreed, closing the gap between them again and reaching up to touch Orlando's cheek. "You're great at being the chef. I want you to practice being the boyfriend."

"Oh," Orlando whispered, and Elijah grinned.

"Don't worry," Elijah teased, stepping forward and kissing Orlando, all too briefly, on the mouth. Orlando licked his lips and tasted milk. "I think you'll do quite nicely."

Orlando grinned. "I hope so."


End file.
